Encrypted
by leyapearl
Summary: While working undercover for the FBI, Frank is captured and left in a catatonic state.  In order to find out what happened to him, Joe and their friends have to decipher the message Frank has left them.  Will they succeed?  Rated T for language
1. Friday

"I'm in!" The dark-haired FBI agent dropped the axe he had used to break through the wall, kicked a few loose boards away, and forced himself through the opening. "Hand and knees, guys. There's not enough room to stand up straight."

"Send in Malone," another agent said. "She doesn't need that much room."

"Can it," Agent Malone yelled back. "Focus, gentlemen, and I use that word loosely. We've got a job to do." She crawled through the opening after the first agent, putting a hand over her mouth and nose against the stench of bodily waste. "Jeez," she muttered, "you think _someone_ would've noticed this." She grabbed a flashlight from her pocket and flashed the beam around crawl space. "Travis, you got anything?"

The first agent's voice came back through the darkness. "Nothing yet, Kara," he reported. "There's not much more space in here to... Oh, shit."

Malone's head jerked up. "What? Travis, what'd you find?"

"A body," Travis replied. A beat, then the light illuminated a prone figure. "It's a male, mid-twenties, dark hair." He swore again. "Wait." Malone could hear him fumbling in the dark. "There's a pulse! Get an ambulance!" His shout spurred the agents on the other side of the wall into action.

"And someone go to the mail room, and get Joe Hardy," Malone said in a grim voice as she exited through hole in the wall. "Tell him we think we've found his brother."

o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o

Joe Hardy paced the hall outside the room where his older brother was being examined, throwing anxious glances at the door every few seconds. "What's taking so long?" he grumbled. Finally, he stopped and just stared at it, willing it to open. "Come on," he said aloud, "let me in." He had already called his parents and their close friends with the news of Frank's recovery. Now he needed to see Frank with his own eyes to prove to himself his brother really was safe and alive.

The door creaked open and a doctor stepped out. "Mr. Hardy?" Joe looked up. The man was fairly young, maybe only in his early thirties with a shock of bright red hair and kind brown eyes. "I'm Robert Finley," he said. "I'm one of the psychiatrists on staff here."

"Psychiatrist?" Joe asked in a flat voice. "Why a psychiatrist?" His voice rose in anger. "What's going on? When can I see my brother?"

"Mr. Hardy, please," Dr. Finley said, "you'll see him in a few minutes. I just wanted to prepare you for what you're going to find."

Joe could feel a coldness steal into his chest. "Prepare me," he repeated tonelessly. "Prepare me for what?"

Dr. Finley's expression was sympathetic. "Your brother has lost a lot of weight. His captors gave him enough food and water to keep him alive, but that's it. We've got him on an IV to get nutrition into his system."

"What are you not telling me, Doc?" Joe asked, his voice quiet but tinged with anger. "My brother's been missing for three months, and you're keeping me here in the hallway rather than letting me see him?" His hands tensed into fists at his sides. "What's going on?"

The doctor scrutinized Joe's expression, then sighed. "Mr. Hardy, your brother is in a catatonic state." He paused. "He's alive and awake, but he's unresponsive to stimuli. We're hoping he comes out of it on his own. We don't want to injure him further by trying to bring him out of it right now." He looked Joe in the eyes. "I'd like you to go in and talk to him. Sometimes hearing familiar voices can help."

Joe stood frozen in place. "And if it doesn't?"

"There's medication we can administer. ECT has also been shown to work." Dr. Finley took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "Given his current physical state, we'd like to avoid those options if at all possible."

Joe nodded, his face pale and worried. "Can I see him now?" he asked. Dr. Finley answered by turning and opening the door to Frank's room, letting it close once Joe had walked in.

The room was light and airy. Frank lay in the bed, his head turned toward the wall opposite the door, his fingers moving slightly on the bedclothes. Joe could see his brother's cheekbones standing out in sharp contrast to the rest of his face. His eyes were dull and lifeless as he stared at the wall. He looked frail and weak and... not there.

"Frank?" Joe's voice cracked as he said his brother's name. There was no response, no indication Frank even knew he was no longer being held captive, that he was safe and Joe was in the room with him. Joe wanted to punch the wall. He wanted to find whoever did this to Frank and beat him into oblivion. He wanted his brother to look at him. "C'mon, Frank, I know you're in there. Talk to me, 'bro."

The door opened. Joe heard the handle engage and turned to see who was there. Agent Malone stood in the doorway looking at him. "How is he?" she asked. Joe shrugged and turned back towards the bed. "We're putting guards at the door. We'll need a list of people who are allowed in. If you have them, photos of those people would be helpful." Malone sighed. "Look, Mr. Hardy, I know I'm not your favorite person right now, and you may have a hard time believing this, but my team is as concerned about your brother's safety as you are."

Joe snorted. "And that's why it took you two months to agree to send me in to look for him? He took this damn case because your people asked him to, and then you ignored me when I told you he was in danger, that contact had been cut off." Joe turned around. "And now you have the gall to tell me you're concerned about his safety? Keep your damn guards. _I'll_ make sure he's safe."

Malone's voice betrayed no emotion. "The guards will be along in a few minutes. Let us know when he's able to talk to us. We'll need his evidence to get this guy behind bars." She turned back towards the door. Without turning around, she said, "Your brother knew the risks when he accepted the assignment, Mr. Hardy. I'm sorry this happened. It's not a something we like, but getting hurt is part of the job. I'd think you of all people would understand that." With that, she pushed the door open and stationed herself in front of the window with her back towards the room.

Joe closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and tried to control his shaking hands. He turned back towards Frank. "I don't know how you work with her, 'bro. Every time she opens her mouth I just want to shut it for her. She makes my teeth itch." He walked closer to the bed. "And I don't care what she says; this_ is_ her fault." Joe put his hands on the rail of the hospital bed. "Come back to us, Frank. Mom and Dad are on their way. They'll be here soon." His voice took on a pleading tone. "Snap out of it, big brother. Come on. Look at me." He paused. "Please, Frank."

The figure on the bed didn't respond. Frank Hardy just sat and stared blankly at the wall, his mind elsewhere, his fingers twitching gently against his legs.


	2. Nine Months Ago

"Hey, Tennison," Miles from the next cubicle over was standing just behind Frank's left shoulder, "boss wants to see you."

Frank kept his eyes on his monitor, pretending not to hear this interruption of his work. A guitar riff escaped from the earbuds stuck into his ears, making it appear as though he was so wrapped up in the rock anthem and his work, he wasn't paying attention to anything else. His brown hair fell over his eyes, partially covering his face, allowing him to see Miles' frustrated reflection in his monitor.

"Dude, did you hear me?" Miles raised his voice. When there was still no reaction, he reached out a hand to grab Frank's arm, suddenly finding that hand caught in a vice-like grip.

"Not a good idea, _dude_," Frank said. "I heard you the first time. What I didn't hear was _why_." His voice was sharp and cold. He raised his eyebrows, waiting for a response as he removed the earbuds with his free hand.

Miles twisted his arm trying to liberate it from Frank's grasp, and gulped when his hand wouldn't move. "Uh, he didn't say. He just told me to get you." He shifted his wrist. "Look, Tennison, can I have my arm back? It's hard to code if I can't type." He laughed nervously, his eyes darting around to see if anyone else was around to help him.

Frank opened his hand, releasing the other man's wrist. "Hansen's in his office?" Miles nodded, backing away quickly towards his own desk and computer. Frank stood and pushed the hair out of his eyes. "Then I guess I shouldn't keep him waiting."

o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o

Frank knocked on the door at the end of the hall, then opened it and walked in without waiting for an invitation. Edward Hansen, a man in his fifties with graying hair and dark eyes, looked up at his entrance. "Tennison, good. Come in. Shut the door behind you. Sit." Hansen waited for the door clicked shut and Frank to sit in the chair in front of his desk before continuing. "You're probably wondering why I asked to see you." Frank nodded, keeping his face blank. "You haven't been here that long, but your work so far has been exemplary. Truthfully, you're probably the best coder we've hired in a while," he paused. "However, I need to ask you about these." He pushed a sheaf of papers across his desk towards Frank who picked them up and started leafing through them, his eyes growing wide as he examined the contents.

"I wasn't aware anything I did in my off-work hours was any of your business," Frank snapped, cheeks turning pale and eyes flashing. He continued flipping pages. "And these," he waved one of the pages in Hansen's face, "were supposed to be sealed once I turned eighteen. How the hell did you get this?" he asked, his voice brittle. He flung the papers back down on the desk, scattering them. "Fine," he fumed, "fine! I'll go clean out my damn desk so you won't need to go to the trouble of firing me." He stood, shoved the chair out of his way, and stormed to the door.

"Frank, I'm not firing you," Hansen said, standing. His voice was gentle. "I'm just looking for an explanation of why you're posting on hacker boards while you're working for a company that writes programs for government agencies." He gathered the papers into a neat pile. "Given what I've seen so far, it looks like most of what you write is theoretical, not something you've put into practice. At least not recently." He paused, smiling. "The theory's good, though."

"How do you know it's me posting those?" Frank asked, hand on the doorknob.

Hansen chuckled. "Aside from what you just said? Come on, son. You're using the name LordTennison. Give me some credit. The spelling of your last name isn't _that_ common. Nor is your sense of humor." He paused, indicating with his hand that Frank should sit back down. "I know your colleagues seem to think you don't possess one, but I've seen flashes of it here and there." Hansen paused and sat back down. "To tell the truth, I've been keeping an eye on you, Frank, and I have to say, I'm impressed with what I've seen so far."

Frank slumped back down in the chair. "And you're not concerned about my record?" he demanded, sarcasm dripping from each word.

Hansen shook his head. "I can see why it's not something you'd mention in an interview." His eyes narrowed as he regarded his employee. "I am curious, though. What made you hack into the school's computer network?"

Frank shrugged his shoulders. "The principal didn't seem to think a foster kid could outdo his precious rich kid scholars. He decided I cheated on a test that could have gotten me a full ride to MIT, so he took my name off as a candidate. _I_ decided grades were overrated so I changed them. Everyone's. In every subject." He smirked. "I also set about a hundred porn sites to open on his workstation as soon as he unlocked it in the morning. Let's just say he wasn't happy. He got investigated. I got freed from a hell-hole foster home and sent on an all-expense paid trip to Juvie."

This time Hansen laughed. "I admire the drive and ingenuity that showed, Frank. I should probably be concerned about your lack of respect for authority figures, though."

"You're sure you don't want me to clean out my desk?" Frank's face darkened as he asked the question.

"Possibly," Hansen replied, smiling when he saw the startled look on Frank's face, "but not in the way you mean." He leaned forward on his desk. "I have a... project I'm working on that I think you might be perfect for. Someone with your background and initiative needs a greater scope for your talents. I think I can offer that to you." He folded his hands. "Have I interested you?"

Frank tilted his head to the side, a light glinting in his brown eyes. "You've definitely intrigued me. Sir," he added as an afterthought. "What kind of work is it?"

"More coding," Hansen said evasively. "Just a different type. Let's just say it's something specialized. From what I've read in your online posts and seen of your work so far, I think it's something you'll excel at. And you'll be compensated at, say, twice your current salary? With bonuses if the work is satisfactory. What do you think?"

"I... I don't know..." Frank stammered. "I could definitely use the money, that's for sure."

Hansen smiled paternally. "Look, Frank, why don't you take rest of the afternoon off, and when you get here tomorrow, come right to me, and I'll introduce you to your new duties. If you're not sure it's what you want to do? Well, we'll see. I'm fairly sure you'll find it challenging enough to keep your interest." He stood and extended a hand. It was a both a congratulatory gesture and a dismissal.

Frank nodded, shook the proffered hand, and walked out of the office.

o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o

When he reached the local public library, Frank looked around to make sure no one was nearby then sat down on a stone bench behind a tree. He pulled out a disposable cell phone, carefully dialed a number, and held the cell up to his ear.

"Keppel's Cables. You string 'em, we sell 'em," came a tense voice on the other end.

Frank smiled. Feeling mischievous from his success with Hansen he decided to try something new. "I am in need to, vot is vord... purchasing five one-hundred meter cat-six cables. You have in stock?" he asked in a theatrical Russian accent.

The silence from the other phone lasted over a minute before he got a response. "Sorry? You want what?"

Frank couldn't help laughing. "And that's why _I_ got picked for this assignment and not you, little brother," he gasped when he could breathe. He could hear Joe let out a long, slow, exasperated breath. "I just wish I could see the expression on your face."

"I'm so glad I can provide you with some comic relief." Joe's tone was sarcastic and his voice sounded angry. "Damn it, Frank, if you're done laughing at my expense, perhaps you'd care to explain why the hell you didn't check in last night like you were supposed to?"

"Work," Frank said, sounding slightly abashed, the laughter in his voice fading. "I didn't get in until after eleven, and I didn't want to wake you up. You weren't worried, were you?"

"Me?" Joe said, all the tension gone and just the sarcasm remaining. "_I_ don't worry about you. Why should I worry about you being undercover for the FBI? I just _love_ being called every half-hour by our mother and aunt from dinnertime until one in the morning wanting to know if you've contacted me yet because it's Tuesday. Really." Frank could feel his face turning red. "And now you call at three in the afternoon on a number no one's supposed to have but you, pretending to be some guy who wants cables. What am I supposed to think?" The irritation in Joe's voice rang out through the phone.

"Okay, you're right. I'm sorry," Frank apologized, "I couldn't resist. Tennison doesn't spend too much time laughing. But, Joe, I think I'm in. Hansen called me in to his office to offer me a special project."

Joe snorted. "How do you know it's not creating a really cool program to count how many pencils the IRS pushes in a year?" Frank could hear him drumming a pen on the desk as he spoke.

"Those kinds of jobs don't usually involve being handpicked by the boss," Frank responded. "Or doubling my salary." He could hear the drumming stop and Joe whistle through the handset. "Look, apologize to Mom and Aunt Gertrude for me. If this is what I think it is, the check-ins are going to be more sporadic. I'll call when I can, but..."

"I know," Joe interrupted, "Frank _Tennison_ doesn't have a family." There was a pause of several seconds where Joe sighed. "Look, 'bro, just be careful. If this guy's hacking government sites for the highest bidder, he's dangerous."

Frank smiled into the phone, feeling a rush of affection for his brother. "Well, this is a switch. Usually I'm the one telling you not to do something stupid. I may need to mark this day on my calendar."

"Usually I'm there to watch your back." Joe snapped back. "I'm serious, Frank. Be careful. Mom and Dad are getting a little tired of those three a.m. phone calls informing them one of us is in the hospital." Frank could hear his brother pacing around the office. "Just keep your cover intact, okay?"

"I'll be careful," Frank promised. "Look, I've got to go. The library's only open until five, and since my alter ego has an attitude problem and no friends, I really need to find something to read. Tell Mom and Dad I said hello, and tell Aunt Gertrude I miss her cooking. A lot. I'll get in touch when I can." He ended the call and tucked the cell phone into his messenger bag with his laptop. Then he took a deep breath, erased any lingering emotions Frank Hardy might have felt from the phone call, and rearranged his expression.

Less than a minute later Frank Tennison got up from the bench, scowled at his watch, and walked toward the library's front doors.


	3. Saturday

Joe spent a mostly sleepless night in a chair by Frank's bed telling his brother about events Frank had missed while undercover. Their parents had arrived late in the evening, stayed long enough to reassure themselves Frank was alive and physically healthy, and talked briefly with Dr. Finley about what they could expect. Then they had settled in a nearby hotel for the night. Fenton Hardy had suffered a heart attack six months previously and needed rest as he tired easily. He had not allowed Joe to tell his brother about the attack when it occurred. "Frank has enough on his plate right now," Fenton had said. "I don't want him to worry."

Now, even though he wasn't sure Frank could hear him, Joe shared with him all his concerns about their father's health. "The faster you come out of this, 'bro, the better it'll be for Dad. For all of us." He leaned his elbows on the bed, reaching out for Frank's hand. Frank shook Joe's hand off, his fingers still twitching lightly. Joe moved his hand to Frank's forearm and gripped it hard, hoping the contact would generate an additional reaction. It didn't. "Frank, please," he whispered, "just try."

There was still no indication Frank even knew Joe was in the room.

Chet arrived early in the morning laden down with food-stuffed bags that smelled as if he had brought Prito's kitchen with him. "Tony couldn't get away from the restaurant," he explained, "but he stayed up all night making all of Frank's favorites for me to deliver." Chet turned to the figure on the bed. "He'll be here as soon as he can, Frank," he announced, raising his voice a little,"so you need to snap out of this and start eating, my friend. Tony's feelings will be hurt if most of this isn't gone by the time he gets here." Then he pulled up a chair and started telling Frank about his latest hobby – quilting. "It's a great way to meet girls. They think it's terrific that I'm so interested, but really, it's fascinating the way the patterns..."

Joe hadn't realized he'd fallen asleep until he felt Chet shaking him by the shoulders. "Joe, I'm heading down to the cafeteria to find some breakfast. Your folks just called; they'll be here soon, and I don't want to be in the way." When Joe tried to press some of Tony's food on him, Chet held up his hands in mock-horror. "Nothing doing. Tony sent that for Frank. I value my life too much to go anywhere near it."

Within minutes of Chet's departure, the agents posted at the door ushered in Fenton and Laura Hardy. While reaching up from the chair to hug his mother and explain there wasn't any change in Frank's condition, he surreptitiously glanced at his father's face. It was the color of ashes. Breaking free of the hug, he then examined his mother. Though her face was calm, her eyes were rimmed with red, evidence that she had been crying recently. It seemed none of them had slept much the previous night.

Immediately, Joe stood and pretended to stretch, offering the chair to his father. Fenton sat down heavily, his eyes locked on his elder son's face. Laura eased down the bed rail and seated herself on the side of Frank's bed, pushing the long, dark hair from his eyes and gently stroking his forehead. "You've been very brave, Frank," she said softly," but you're safe now. We've missed you so much, and we need you to come home. We love you."

Joe could feel tears forming behind his eyes. He pinched the bridge of his nose tightly with his forefinger and thumb to stop them. He hated that his parents had to go through this. Falling apart wouldn't help them right now, though. He had to be strong for them. For Frank.

Feeling he was being watched, Joe moved his hand and opened his eyes. His father was regarding him with a curious expression. "Do you have any idea what Frank was working on, son?" Fenton asked quietly, so as not to disturb his wife.

"No," Joe said bitterly. "He tried explaining it to me once, but most of it went right over my head. Something about programs that looked like they were working the way they were supposed to but were actually transmitting to two servers or something like that. I made some wiseass remark about tracking cookies, and did they make them with chocolate chips or something stupid like that." He closed his eyes again, fighting off a wave of guilt for not having paid more attention, for not having tried to understand what his brother was doing. He shook his head. Guilt wouldn't help Frank now. He needed his mind clear so he could focus. There would be time enough for guilt later.

Chet returned after about an hour and sat with them while they waited. Joe was grateful for his presence. Chet entertained Laura by describing his travails with his new sewing machine and asked her advice on colors for his latest quilt. Then he reminisced with Fenton about the cases Frank and Joe had taken on as teenagers, laughing when he remembered earlier hobbies that ended up helping the brothers solve those cases or else got them involved in unexpected events.

Several times during the morning they all left the room while Frank's doctors came in and examined him, checking for any signs of returning awareness. Each time they returned to the news there was no change. Joe felt like he was going crazy.

Around noontime, Chet tilted his head to the side and looked at Fenton. "You look hungry, Mr. Hardy," he said. "The cafeteria here looks like it has a mean salad bar. Would you and Mrs. Hardy care to join me for some lunch?"

Laura smiled at Chet and nodded almost imperceptibly. "I think that's an excellent idea, dear." She turned to Joe. "Will you come with us?"

Joe shook his head. "You can bring me a sandwich," he replied. "I want to be here in case..." He left the remainder of the sentence unsaid.

Fenton argued that he wasn't hungry and showed every indication of not moving until Chet said, "Are you _sure_ you want to send me on a date with your lovely wife, Mr. Hardy? I may not bring her back." At that, Fenton smiled, and Joe knew Chet had said the right thing. Anything else would have gotten his father's stubborn streak going. To stay healthy, he needed to be eating regularly.

When they left, the room suddenly became very quiet. Joe glanced over at Frank, who appeared to be sleeping. Frank's eyes were closed and his breathing deep and even. There was no staring, no twitching. Joe breathed a sigh of relief. He was running out of things to say that didn't involve swearing loudly or asking questions Frank couldn't answer right now. He sat back down in one of the chairs and tipped his head back, closing his eyes for a moment.

A scuffle coming from the hallway forced him back up, a rush of adrenaline making him extremely alert. The agents in the hall were arguing with someone and the voices were getting louder.

"I don't care if I'm not on any damn list. You have to let me in!" The door muffled the voice but not the words. From inside the room, though, Joe couldn't tell who it was. He strode to the door and yanked it open, ready to protect Frank's sleeping body with his life if need be. The face on the other side stopped him in his tracks.

"Joe?"

"Phil?" Joe shook his head, trying to clear the shock he felt. "You're supposed to be in California. What are you doing here?"

Phil Cohen looked at Joe with stricken eyes. "I can understand if you don't want me here, Joe. Biff called as soon as he got off the phone with you last night." The agents let go of Phil's arms but still blocked entry to Frank's room. Joe looked at Phil carefully. He obviously hadn't slept and was rumpled from traveling. "I had to come. Frank's my best friend. I had to apologize." He paused, his eyes filling with tears. "This is all my fault. None of this would have happened if it hadn't been for me."


	4. Six Months Ago

Over the next three months Frank had worked hard at earning Hansen's trust while learning as much as he could about the illegal side of the programming operation. Each time he discovered something new, he detailed his findings on a small numbered flash drive that he then stored in a safe deposit box at a local bank with the key held in a PO box down the street from his apartment. He knew no one would question him using either the bank or the post office, so both locations were safe, and he paid for both boxes in cash so the only trail led to Tennison. All his notes were in a code Frank had created himself, one he was positive could only be broken by someone who knew him extremely well, so the information would be secure if something happened to him.

Frank slunk into the office late one Wednesday morning to find Hansen sitting at his desk scrolling through files on his computer. Frank pulled the earbuds from his ears, muttered some excuse about his alarm clock not working properly, then stood awkwardly shuffling his feet waiting for Hansen either to talk or leave, preferably leave.

After another minute or so, Hansen closed the window on the screen and looked up at him. "See that you're here at eight o'clock sharp tomorrow, Frank," he said, smiling. "Derek's sick, so you'll be going to the DC conference with me."

"What?" Frank's jaw dropped. The whole office – both sides of the operation – had been getting ready for a presentation Hansen would be giving at a computer conference in Washington for government vendors. It was a big deal for the company. "You're taking me?" he spluttered. "Why?"

Hansen chuckled. "You've been doing good work. Consider it one of those bonuses I mentioned when you started." He eyed Frank speculatively. "You don't happen to own a suit, do you?" Frank shook his head, his eyes wide. "Oh, well, government or not, I guess they don't expect you techies to be in ties." His eyes raked Frank's somewhat tattered choice of clothes. "Just leaved the ripped jeans at home, son." Then he got up from Frank's chair and left. Frank let out a long breath.

o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o

"What'll you do if someone recognizes you?" Joe asked when Frank called that night to fill him in on the trip. Joe was eating, and Frank had to guess at the question as not all the words were intelligible.

"I'll bluff," Frank replied, hoping he was answering correctly. "I'm figuring between the hair, the slouch, the attitude, and the ever-present MP3 player stuck in my ears most people are going to give me a wide berth."

"Man, I wish I could get a picture," Joe said, chewing into the phone. "I can't even begin to imagine you scruffy or with long hair."

"Get used to disappointment, little brother. First thing I'm doing when this is all over is cutting it off." Frank pushed his hair out of his eyes for what felt like the hundredth time since he left work for the day. "Beats me how anyone can stand this." He sighed. "I'll just have to rely on Tennison's sparkling personality to deter most conversations." He paused, listening to Joe eat. "So, what is it today?"

"Tony's pizza," Joe answered, mouth still full. "Cheeseburger. Jealous?"

Frank sighed again. "You have _no _idea."

"Anyway," Joe swallowed, making a loud gulping noise, "there's also the name tag. Anyone who thinks they recognize you probably won't connect you to Frank Hardy once they see Tennison's name on your badge. Oh, and you should scowl at them. A lot. Just make sure you're convincing about it."

Frank's voice was dry as he replied. "I'm overwhelmed by the depth of your confidence in my acting ability," he said. "I'll have you know my co-workers are terrified of me. They have a betting pool on the date I finally show up in the office toting a gun so I can shoot my way over to my computer."

Joe laughed. "Yeah, but they're geeks," he said. Frank could hear him starting on another slice of pizza. "What do they know?"

o-o-o-o-o-o-o

The conference was fascinating. Frank had to keep reminding himself that his alter ego wouldn't be as interested in some of the offerings as he was and had to make a concerted effort to force his expression into a bored version of Tennison's customary scowl. He was surprised to find that Joe was right about the name tag. The few people who approached him the first two days – all with puzzled looks on their faces – trying to glimpse the face behind the thick fall of dark hair moved their eyes quickly from the unwelcoming expression straight down to the tag pinned to Frank's shirt. Each one backed away quickly with a relieved look on their face when the name wasn't the one they expected. It worked almost perfectly.

Almost. Until Sunday morning.

Frank attended a particularly engrossing session on practical applications of computer viruses in fighting terrorist attacks that set his mind racing. The information would be useful for both his undercover assignment and his real investigative work. As he stood, the fastener on his badge came undone. Mind whirling over what he had just learned, he never saw it fall to the floor.

He walked out of the session, his eyes distant, the earbuds hanging forgotten in his left hand. He made it out the door and partway down the hall before realizing he was walking like Frank Hardy and not Frank Tennison. Instantly he lowered his head, adjusted his shoulders down, and dropped his gaze to the floor, glancing quickly behind him to make sure Hansen hadn't followed him out yet. Through the open doors he could see Hansen deep in conversation with one of the presenters. He breathed a sigh of relief, chastised himself for his mental lapse, popped the tiny speakers back in his ears, and started off to wait for Hansen at the next session.

His fingers were just touching the power button on his MP3 player when a familiar voice called, "Frank? Hey, Frank!"

Frank's steps faltered, but he didn't turn to acknowledge the speaker. Instead, he continued pushing his way through the crowd, his mind ablaze. What was _Phil_ doing here? Had Joe known and not warned him? He walked as briskly as Tennison's shuffling gait would allow, hoping to lose his friend in the sea of people exiting from various conference rooms.

A hand touched his shoulder, "Frank?" a breathless voice asked. "Didn't you hear me? And what's up with the hair? And the clothes?" Phil sounded puzzled but genuinely happy to see his friend.

Inwardly Frank swore. There was no way to warn Phil what he was about to do, and to keep Phil safe he had to make it look good. He turned and snarled with all the venom he could force in his voice. "What the hell do you think you're doing? Keep your hands to yourself, freak."

Phil flinched from both the words and the barely suppressed violence in Frank's voice. His hands fell to his sides, and his eyes grew wide. "Frank, what's wrong with you?"

Frank could see the hurt and confusion on Phil's face and his heart sank. He reached for his conference badge, flinching when he realized it was gone. "Look," he said, "I don't know how you know my name, but I'm _not_ whoever you think I am, so shove off." Frank pushed him away closer to the small crowd gathering around them. Several of the people moved protectively closer to Phil.

"Tennison!" Hansen's sharp voice came from several yards down the hall. "What's going on here?" He pushed through the spectators and handed Frank the missing badge. "I found this on the floor by your chair. Now explain your behavior." He crossed his arms, waiting.

Frank glared at Phil, taking refuge in sullenness. "This guy can't seem to keep his hands to himself." He reattached the badge to his shirt, watching Phil's growing look of understanding as he saw the name on the tag. "I told him I wasn't who he thought I was, but he wouldn't drop it."

Hansen turned to Phil, a chagrined look on his face. "Look, Mr..." He stole a glance at Phil's badge. "Mr. Cohen. Please accept my apologies for my employee's appalling behavior..."

"No," Phil interrupted, "it was my fault." He had turned pale, and his voice sounded mechanical. "I thought he was someone else. Someone I knew from... a previous job." Frank could hear the strain in his words. Phil gave him a long look. "Sorry to have troubled you." Then he turned abruptly and left.

As the crowd dissipated, Hansen put a hand to his forehead. "Jesus, Frank, this is a business conference, not Juvenile Hall. Our company has a reputation to uphold. An important reputation. Put some of your damn paranoia behind you." Frank stared at him, stone-faced. "Find something to eat, and go back up to the room. Get yourself calmed down. I have to go meet one of our other contacts." He paused. "Come back after lunch, and try to behave yourself." He put a hand on Frank's shoulder. "_We need to be careful not to draw too much attention to ourselves,_" he whispered. Frank nodded once and headed towards the elevators.

o-o-o-o-o-o-o

Frank managed to hold onto Tennison's mannerisms until the hotel room's door closed behind him. As he sat down on the edge of the bed, his hands started shaking. He hadn't seen Phil in nearly a year, not since Phil had left for California to take a job in Silicon Valley, and this was not how he pictured a reunion with his best friend. Slowly he reached into his messenger bag and pulled out the cell phone he used to keep in touch with Joe. He couldn't take a chance on calling in case Hansen came back into the room unexpectedly, but he could send a text message. He went into the bathroom, locked the door behind him, and turned on the faucet. When the messaging screen opened, he typed in 'Call P l8r. Say sorry. Thx.' Then he hit the send button and shut off the phone.


	5. Sunday

Joe had let Phil sit alone with Frank until Chet came back from lunch with his parents. During that time, Joe made sure to add Phil – as well as Tony and Biff – to the list of those allowed in Frank's room. Chet had mentioned Tony would try to get to the hospital once the restaurant closed on Sunday night, and Biff was in London on business. Or at least that was where he had been when Joe last spoke to him. Then again, Phil was supposed to be in California, not here at the hospital, so Joe figured it was better to be safe.

Once Fenton and Laura had returned, Chet and Joe took Phil to the small conference room the FBI had commandeered for agents to rest between shifts. Regardless of how Joe felt about Kara Malone, he had to admit she wasn't taking any chances with Frank's safety; there were agents at his door twenty-four hours a day, generally with several others in reserve in the conference room. Joe had the feeling many came after their regular duty shifts were done because they wanted to help out. Right now, however, the room was empty. As they sat, Joe turned to Phil, physically unable to wait any longer. "What did you mean, 'it's your fault'?" he asked. He made sure to keep his voice as calm and level as possible.

Phil took a deep breath and launched into his story of seeing Frank at the conference in Washington. Joe listened in horror as Phil described the incident that culminated with Hansen's interference. "I avoided him the rest of the week, stayed in my room when I wasn't in a session," Phil said in a low voice. "It was the only thing I could think to do. My co-workers thought I'd come down with something on the flight out. It was the only explanation they could come up with for why I suddenly lost all my enthusiasm for the conference."

Joe just stared. He had gotten the cryptic text Frank had sent from DC and had given Phil the message, but he hadn't known _why_ Frank had been apologizing. He hadn't mentioned seeing Phil. Part of him wanted to tell Phil it wasn't his fault Frank had been caught. But he couldn't, because there was a chance, a good one, that it _was _Phil's fault. The other part of him wanted to scream and rage at Phil for being so damn slow on the uptake. He had participated in some of their cases when they were kids for G-d's sake. And wasn't he supposed to be some kind of freaking genius? But when he looked at Phil, all he saw was a man who hadn't slept in at least twenty-four hours out of concern for Frank, who had jumped on a plane and flew across the country without knowing if he would be welcomed or turned away, who was his brother's best friend.

Chet had an arm around Phil's shoulders. He said the words Joe wasn't able to. "Phil, this isn't your fault. You didn't do this to Frank. Someone else did, and we're going to find whoever it is and turn him over to the feds." Phil bowed his head, putting his face in his hands. His shoulders started to shake.

Joe started to reach out a hand towards Phil, then dropped it. He didn't know what to feel, what to believe. He gave Chet a brief glance, then turned towards the door and left without a word. He knew Phil felt awful, but he couldn't say anything. He just didn't trust what words might come out of his mouth.

o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o

A few hours later, Chet entered Frank's room with the news that Phil had fallen asleep and that Tony and Biff had both called hoping for better news than they had received. "Tony'll be here tomorrow night," he reported. "His dad said he'd take the Sunday dinner crowd. Mr. Prito knows Tony's mind isn't on the restaurant right now. Biff's in London until at least Wednesday. He's changing his flight home to bring him straight here. He sends his best."

Joe nodded. He'd calmed down enough to know how much of a load Chet was taking on, saving him from having to talk to their friends, to repeat the same news over and over. "You ever consider becoming a personal assistant, Chet?" he asked his friend. "You seem to have a knack for this sort of thing."

Chet flashed a wan smile. "That's only because you guys have given me a lot of practice," he said. "One of these days, I'll start charging. Then you'll really need to watch out."

o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o

Joe woke before sunrise Sunday morning with a stiff neck and sore back from sleeping in the same chair where he had spent the previous night. Chet had escorted Fenton and Laura back to their hotel once it had gotten dark, and Joe figured he must have fallen asleep soon after they all left. He looked up at Frank who was now awake as well. There appeared to be no change. Frank lay unmoving, face still turned to the far wall, fingers still moving every few seconds. Joe sighed, then started as he saw movement with his peripheral vision. He jerked his head to the side and saw Phil in the other chair, leaning forward and watching Frank so intently he hadn't noticed Joe had woken up. Joe followed Phil's gaze to Frank's hands but didn't notice anything different since the first time he had seen his brother on Friday. He coughed to get Phil's attention, and Phil's eyes flickered momentarily over to Joe's face before moving quickly back to Frank.

"Look at his hands," Phil said. "What's he doing?"

Joe let out an exasperated breath. "Damned if I know." He had more control over his words now, but he knew Phil could hear the strain he was feeling. "The doctors have no clue either. They think his muscles are reacting to his having been cooped up for so long."

"But it's just his hands," Phil said, "and it's too controlled. I've been watching him for a while now. It's just his hands," he repeated, puzzled, "not the rest of his body. You'd think he'd be having leg cramps." He stood and examined Frank's fingers more closely, a curious expression growing on his face. "Joe, look at him. He's typing. It's hesitant, but he's typing."

Joe stood as well, tilting his head from one side to another for a better look. "Are you sure? I mean, it looks like it, but it could just be muscle spasms. Anyway, Frank types much faster than that. Something like ninety words a minute. Maybe faster."

Phil grabbed his backpack from the floor and drew out a mid-sized laptop. He booted up the computer and started a word processing program. Once a new document window opened, he slid the computer under Frank's hands, making sure to position his fingers correctly on the keyboard. "If he's trying to remember a code, that could slow him down. Especially now when he's... like this."

Frank's hands stopped moving. This was the first time Joe had seen Frank's hands still when he was awake; asleep, they relaxed with the rest of his body. Joe held his breath. Then Frank's head turned from the wall towards the computer's screen. Phil gasped. Joe walked quietly to the end of the bed, not wanting to startle his brother. When he looked at Frank's face, he saw Frank's eyes were still blank and unseeing, making him want to curse in frustration. Then, slowly, Frank's fingers started moving again. One at a time, a few seconds between each keystroke, letters and numbers started appearing on the screen.

"Holy shit," Joe breathed, "he really is typing." He crossed back to stand near Phil. "What does it say?"

"I don't know," Phil said, just as quietly, eyes glued to the screen. "There's not enough there, yet. Either it's gibberish, or it's in code." He turned and looked Joe straight in the eyes. "If it's in code..."

"Then he's trying to communicate with us." Joe sank slowly back into his chair, his legs suddenly unable to support him. "How do we know which it is?"

Phil turned back to Frank and the laptop. "We wait. If it repeats, it may mean it's a message for us. Or for someone. The FBI, maybe?"

Time stood still. Joe lost track of how long they sat there, watching and listening. Every few seconds Frank would strike another key, adding another symbol to the ones already on the page. Sunlight filled the room before Phil finally spoke, a sliver of suppressed excitement filling his voice. "It's repeating."

Joe's head shot up. "Are you sure?"

"I'm sure," Phil nodded. "He's trying to tell us something." He looked up at Joe. "Now we just have to figure out what it is."


	6. Three Months Ago

Frank lifted his head from his desk, yawned, and rubbed his eyes. He squinted at the clock in the corner of the screen and cringed when he read '10:45 PM.' "Great," he muttered, "that means I've been at work for..." he did the math in his head, "just about sixteen hours. Yippee. And now I'm talking to myself," he groaned. Right now it wasn't too hard to maintain Tennison's belligerent attitude. He was exhausted. This was the fourth day in a row he'd had to come in to the office early and stay way too late. The company had a new software release scheduled to come out early next month, and both sides of the operation were working overtime to get it done – and working properly – on time. Frank was supposed to be partnered with Derek, another recent recruit, in making sure the tracking code worked effectively and was embedded deeply enough that government programmers wouldn't find it. Monday he'd worked fourteen hours straight. By Wednesday he was up to eighteen hours, going back to his apartment only long enough to fall into bed fully clothed for a few hours and then take a quick shower before returning.

The problem was that Derek hadn't been at work for three days, which meant all the product testing and revision fell on Frank. While doing all this, he was also committing as much of the process as possible to memory as there hadn't been time lately to add to his stash of flash drives. He rubbed his eyes again, grumbling to himself that Derek got sick _much_ too often, then returned his attention and half-closed eyes to the lines of code on his monitor.

Less than a minute later he was startled wide awake by a knock on the door frame of his office. He jerked his head up to see Hansen standing in the doorway, a cup of hot coffee steaming in his outstretched hand. Frank took it gratefully and drank deeply, hoping the caffeine would kick in quickly. He wasn't sure he could stay awake much longer without it.

"Have you got a minute, Frank?" Hansen asked.

Frank raised an eyebrow over the cup. He swallowed and lowered the coffee down to his desk. "Honestly? No," he replied. "If Derek had bothered to show his sorry ass in here the past few days, it might be yes." He shrugged. "But seeing as you're the boss..." He lifted the cup in a mock salute to Hansen before taking another large gulp.

"That's actually what I needed to talk to you about, son," Hansen said. "Derek is no longer with us."

Frank choked on his mouthful of coffee. "What?" he croaked. He coughed and gasped for breath for a few seconds before trying to speak again. "No longer with us? He's not, like, _dead_, is he?" He paused and took another sip of coffee. "Of course, that would be the only way I'd forgive him for ditching me with all this damn work to do." He eyed Hansen warily, waiting to see his boss' reaction and thinking he must be really tired; Hansen's voice sounded odd in his ears.

Hansen chuckled without warmth. "No," he said. "Derek isn't dead. At least not yet." He paused, letting his words sink in before continuing. "He quit today via an email that was littered with misspelled words and atrocious grammar." Hansen crossed his arms over his chest, and Frank had a memory of the man in that pose at the conference. A sudden wave of dizziness struck him, making him glad he was seated. "Apparently, Derek decided to go into business for himself. He sold copies of our work to date to one of my major competitors." Mechanically, Frank took another sip of coffee, noting with surprise his hand shook slightly as he lowered the cup back to the desk. Hansen looked at him with an odd expression on his face. "He was gloating a bit that he had been doing this under my nose the whole time he was here, and I hadn't noticed. He seemed fairly proud of it." Hansen paused, unfolding his arms and taking a step closer to Frank. "He also intimated he wasn't working alone."

"Not alone?" Frank repeated. He was having trouble focusing, and his voice wavered as he spoke. "Derek and who?" He shook his head, trying to clear it. "I'm the only one who's been..." He couldn't finish the sentence.

Hansen again moved closer, staring down at Frank. "Yes," he agreed. "You are the only one who's been working with him."

Frank's head was spinning, and his vision was starting to blur. "I'm not... working for your competition," he slurred. "I wouldn't..." His head slumped forward as the light in the room dimmed. "The coffee... What did you... do to me?" he whispered.

"You and Derek started at about the same time, Frank," Hansen said, his voice coming from very far away. "These contracts are far too valuable for me to take the chance that you're working with him." Frank tried to lift his head, but darkness was pressing down hard on his senses, shutting down his brain, stifling him. He thought he heard Hansen say, "I'm sorry about this, son. You've done good work, and I like you, but business is business."

Frank fought against the darkness, but it was too strong. He felt it engulf him, blotting out all sound and light, all thought. Then he tumbled from the chair, unconscious.

o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o

Awareness came back slowly. At first, Frank only knew he was lying on something. A cot, maybe? It wasn't quite long enough, and his feet hung off the end. His brain felt scrambled, and some time passed before it was possible to form a coherent thought. He had been at his desk, and... And what? He opened his eyes. He was in a small, low-ceilinged, windowless room that looked like it had once been a bomb shelter. There was sound-proofing on the walls, two buckets to the right of the cot he was on, and several cases of bottled water by what looked like a metal door. A camping lantern was hooked to the ceiling, throwing a small circle of light on the floor.

Hansen was sitting on a camp chair by the door, watching Frank intently. "Good. You're finally awake," he said. "I was beginning to worry I'd misjudged the dose." He peered at Frank in the dim light. "How do you feel?"

Frank struggled to sit up, not wanting to show weakness in front of the man. A clanging noise from the floor drew his attention, and as he looked down he realized his left ankle was chained to the cot which, in turn, was welded to the floor. "Go to hell," he rasped. He steadied himself with one hand and worked on sitting, wrapping the other hand around his throat. It was so dry, it hurt to talk. "Let me out of here, you bastard," he croaked.

Hansen held out a bottle of water from one of the cases by the door. When Frank refused to take it, he threw it on the cot. "It's sealed, Frank. I promise you won't be drugged again."

Frank snorted in response. He forced himself to sit straight. "Like your word means anything." He tried to swallow and grimaced. The bottle sat untouched.

"Come on, Frank, it's straight from the store. Watch." Hansen took a second bottle from the floor, opened it, and drank some. Then he wiped the mouth, replaced the cap, and tossed it to Frank, who caught it with one hand. "Just drink."

Frank watched for a minute, waiting to see Hansen's reaction to the water, then he uncapped the bottle, lifted it to his mouth, and drained it. Gasping for breath, he grabbed the first bottle and downed the contents of that one as well.

Hansen nodded. "That's better." He looked up at Frank in amusement. "You really are paranoid, aren't you?" Frank just glared at him. "Look, son..."

"I'm _not_ your son," Frank spat back at him.

"Frank," Hansen amended. "I just need to keep you out of the way until the new release is installed. It's the only way I can be sure you're not working with Derek."

"Are you really that stupid?" Frank asked. "Whoever it is – _if_ there really is someone else – will see I'm gone and decide to lay low. They'll figure whatever you did to me is what you'll do to them. They'll notice I'm gone and start asking questions. People will be looking for me."

"What people?" Hansen shot back. "Your colleagues? I told them you had a nervous breakdown, that you couldn't handle the level of work you were being assigned." He smiled. "They're so relieved you're gone, they don't care why. You terrified them. Most of them were convinced you were on drugs." He chuckled. "In fact, there's already a rumor that you OD'd on something, and I sent you to rehab out of the goodness of my heart." He leaned forward, his face growing serious. "You've got no family, no friends. I checked your laptop; there were no email contacts, and the only number on your cell phone was for a computer supply company. By the way, I'm sorry about your electronics." He leaned back in the chair as if they were chatting about the weather. "So, unless you _are_ working for someone else, there are no 'people'. I'm all you've got."

Frank slowly sat back down on the cot, staring at Hansen in disbelief. The man was right. Almost. No one in the _office _would care that he was gone, but he knew Joe would figure out something was wrong. It would probably take a few weeks. The check-in calls had become much less frequent as Frank's workload increased, and each of the last few times Joe had reamed him out for waiting so long between calls. He hadn't spoken to his brother in – how long was it this time? – almost three weeks. Joe would start getting nervous soon. Frank just needed to wait it out. He put on a scared face, as if Tennison was just now realizing the seriousness of his predicament. "What's going to happen to me?" he asked softly.

"If I can prove you aren't working for my competitors? I let you out, we let everyone think you were in a psych ward, and you get a big, fat bonus check and a promotion for your silence." Hansen paused, choosing his words carefully. "If I find out you are? You stay here until you're useless. Or dead."

"Dead?" Frank made sure to put just the right amount of tremor in his voice.

Hansen stood. His head just brushed the ceiling. "I'd rather that not happen," he said conversationally. "You remind me of myself when I was your age, so.. Frank. You've got no one, but you're brilliant. And driven. I can see that. I think we're very much alike."

Frank could feel the blood drain from his face. He felt like Hansen had just punched him. "No," he said quietly. "We're not at all alike. Not even close."

Hansen smiled at him, the smile of an adult to a child who had just said something foolish. "We'll see." Then he stood, opened the metal door, and walked into the hallway.

Frank heard the locks engage, then stood, head bumping the ceiling, hands shaking in anger. "I'm _nothing_ like you," he yelled. "_Nothing._" He threw the empty bottle at the door then sat back down, frightened for the first time.


	7. Monday

They spent the rest of Sunday trying to break the code. Tony arrived late in the evening to find Phil, Chet, and Joe at the conference room table hunched over a piece of paper. He stood and looked over Phil's shoulder to see what was on the paper.

r2po h2h r3oajh2o2n uch2j2 h2t asheyo iao2u uasi2 ucao2i2 nlwj2 joipjh2o2n oj2h3 h3ch2s uoss ch2t ipyor3 2aj2o2u rr3pi2oo2 cao2jeoo2 ucplncu h2 j2psj ch2t plu p2 pr3 a3 hsaj2c jr3h2yoj2 j2ahouw joh3pj2h2u rp3 hh2r3j2u o2auh2po2as tah2o2 h3ch2s joipjo nh2yo i2ar3a jouah2sj2 cao2j2oo2 j2 ph3or3auh2po2 i2ow h3p rp3 t2a2t2u2 j2pluc tai2o cao2j2oo2 i2o2p2 2cp j2pr3r3w h

"Okay." Tony sat down next to Chet, turning to Joe with a puzzled look on his face. "I went to Frank's room to find you, and your folks told me you were in here. I thought we were here to help Frank. What are you guys doing? Playing games?" Chet threw him a warning glance.

Phil could see Joe's face turning red and intercepted the question. "Tony, it's a message." At the questioning look on Tony's face, he continued. "From Frank." He quickly filled Tony in on what had happened. "Frank's trying to communicate something. We're trying to translate it."

Tony turned to Joe. "Sorry, man. I should've known." He flashed a rueful grin at them all. "This _is_ Frank we're talking about." He turned the paper so he could examine it more carefully, then shook his head. "It's already over my head. You guys have been at this all day?"

Joe nodded, his jaw tight. "And we're no closer to finding out what it means than we were this morning." He slammed his fist on the table. "Damn it! What the hell is wrong with us? We know him better than anyone, and we can't even figure out a few lousy lines of code!" He flung himself from the table, overturning his chair in the process, and turned to shove his hands against the wall, feeling tears starting to form in his eyes.

The stunned silence at the table was broken by the sound of a chair scraping against the floor. Joe felt a hand on his shoulder. "Joe," Chet said in a firm voice, "you need a break. Why don't you head to the room and see if your parents want to go back to their hotel? It's late, and your dad is probably tired. We'll keep working. Tony can take your place. Maybe he'll come up with something we've missed." Tony and Phil murmured their agreement.

Joe nodded. "Yeah," he said, still facing the wall. "That's probably a good idea." He turned back towards the table, towards his friends. "I'm sorry," he said quietly. "It's just..."

"We know, buddy," Tony said. "You don't need to explain. We get it." His voice was understanding. "I'm just impressed that you haven't punched any holes in the walls yet."

In spite of himself, Joe felt a smile starting at the corners of his mouth. "It's not that I haven't felt like it," he admitted, "but I figure Mom has enough to worry about right now without my help."

"Come on," Chet was tugging on his arm. "I'll walk you down the hall. My legs are falling asleep."

As they exited the room, Phil looked up from the papers scattered on the table. "Joe, we'll get it. I promise." Joe exchanged a long look with him, then nodded again and allowed Chet to escort him to Frank's room.

o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o

Chet ended up accompanying Joe and the elder Hardys to the hotel. He ordered dinner for them from the room service menu, then sat with them and made sure they all ate something. When they returned to the hospital, he urged Joe to go see Frank. "You need to stay with him for a while," he said. "Update him on our progress."

"Or lack of the same," Joe responded bitterly. His anger and weariness were returning in full force. He hated seeing Frank like this, and he hated even more that there was nothing he could do.

"Pessimist," Chet shot back. "No wonder you guys need me around so much." He followed Joe into the room and sat down in one of the chairs. "What's really bothering you?" he asked. "I _know_ you, Joe, so don't tell me 'nothing.' I've been sitting here watching you beating yourself up for the last two days, and I want to know why so you'll stop taking it out on Phil and Tony." Joe hammered at the chair's armrest. "And the hospital's furniture."

Joe looked away, his shoulders slumping in defeat. "I should have been there, Chet." His eyes filled with tears again and his voice fell. "He's always had my back. _Always._ And I wasn't there for him."

Chet's voice grew hard. "Bullshit," he said. "You were there when he needed you. They wouldn't have found him if it wasn't for you." He pointed to the bed. "Look at him, Joe. Look how thin he is. If you hadn't gone in when you did, we might have never gotten him back. They might have just found his body." Joe flinched, as much from Chet's words as from the images they raised. "You were there for him, and when he comes out of this, he'll tell you the same." He smiled. "Probably in longer words, though."

Joe blinked, a few of the tears escaping from his eyes. "You really know how to get my attention, don't you?"

"Someone has to know how to talk you down," Chet agreed. "It keeps your insurance costs reasonable. And your legal fees."

"Right." Joe wiped his eyes and looked at Chet as if he were seeing his friend for the first time. "You know, we could probably use your skills at the agency. We're short an office manager."

"Again?" Chet raised his eyebrows. "You seem to have a hard time keeping help. That's, what, five in three years?"

Joe shrugged. "I've been told we can be difficult to work for."

"Really? I can't imagine why," Chet said, with an exaggerated drawl. "Frank's a robot who thinks everyone should work at the same pace he does, and you're pretty much bi-polar, laughing one minute and punching holes in the wall the next."

"Why does everyone keep bringing that up? It was only one time," Joe protested. At Chet's raised eyebrows, he conceded, "well, okay, maybe twice. You should think about it, though. Coming to work for us, I mean."

Chet looked at Joe, a small smile on his face. "Talk to the robot about it first. But if he says yes? I'm in. You guys really need someone to take better care of you."

o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o

They talked and dozed in Frank's room until mid-morning on Monday, then returned to the conference room to find both Phil and Tony asleep, Phil face-down on a pad of paper covered with crossed out words and letters and Tony sprawled across several chairs. Crumpled up balls of paper overflowed out of the recycling bin and littered the table and floor. Joe tried to slide the notepad out from under Phil's head without waking him. This caused Phil to jump and grab onto it with both hands, protesting loudly that he wasn't asleep, he was just resting his eyes. By now Tony was also awake, yawning and stretching.

Within minutes they were back at work. Phil showed Joe lists of categories they had tried and abandoned – sports teams, Frank's favorite authors, names of professors, and parts of the world he and Joe had traveled. "Nothing fits." Frustration clearly showed on his face. "Even when I get thirty-six digits, the letter grouping don't spell words."

"Don't you mean twenty-six?" Joe asked.

"Thirty-six. Twenty-six letters and ten digits," Phil explained. "There are definite patterns in Frank's code" He pointed to certain areas. "For example, I'm pretty sure these are vowels, but without the key..." He shook his head.

Chet turned to Tony. "Speaking of patterns. Did you bring my box?"

Tony slapped his forehead lightly. "Yeah, I did. I grabbed it from the car after you guys left." He indicated oversized shoebox on one of the chairs. "What's in it, anyway?"

"Fabric for my latest quilt," Chet answered. "I'm making them for the kids undergoing cancer treatments at Bayport Medical. This is my first sort of complicated one," he explained. "All the others have been done in strips. You sew the strips together then cut them so you get strips of different fabrics that you then sew together in blocks." Tony whistled.

Joe came over to look at the tiny squares and strips of brightly colored fabric, looking for something to distract him. He couldn't begin to imagine how Chet had the patience to piece them together. "That's really nice of you."

"What can I say? I'm a thoughtful guy." Chet fished through the box and brought out a finished quilt block. "This one's more difficult. It's a log cabin quilt. You have to start from the middle and work your way out."

A cell phone rang. Tony grabbed it from the table, glancing at the incoming number. "It's Biff. What time is it in London?" He opened it and started giving Biff the latest updates.

Phil was staring at Chet. "What did you just say?"

"About what. The kids?" Chet asked, puzzled.

"No, about the quilt," Phil said, "what did you say about the quilt?"

Chet looked at Phil, his hands full of fabric. "You have to start from the middle..."

Phil's eyes grew wide. He yanked the notepad from the table and started writing. "Tony! Put Biff on speaker." Tony pressed a button on the phone. "Biff! What's your middle name?"

Biff's voice echoed slightly through the phone. "I don't use it."

"I don't care if you don't use it," Phil's voice was testy. "Just tell me what it is. Does Frank know it?"

"Probably. Frank knows everything," Biff replied. "It's Whitaker. One 't'. It's my mother's maiden name." They heard a noise from Biff's end of the line. "Guys, I have to go," he said. "I'm heading into a meeting. Hey, can one of you pick me up at the airport? My plane should be in about three Wednesday afternoon."

Joe looked at Chet who nodded. "Chet'll be there. We'll call if there's anything new." Then he turned his attention back to Phil.

"Whitaker, Paul, Ari, John... Tony, yours is Christopher, right?" Phil looked up long enough to see Tony nod then turned back to the paper. "Chet, how about you? Tell me it's got six letters."

Chet shrugged. "I don't have a middle name."

Phil's face fell. "He wouldn't have left you out," he muttered. He looked back up at Chet. "Your birthday, it's in July, right?"

"July twenty-third," Chet replied. "Why?"

Phil's eyes widened and he wrote something down on the paper. When he finished, he looked up at the others. "Thirty-six digits. Our middle names and Chet's birthday." He was breathless. "_We're the key. _Now we just have to figure out how he organized them." Phil started writing down different combinations – alphabetically, by first name, and in reverse.

Joe paced around the room, growing more agitated as each sequence failed to unlock the message. "For G-d's sake, Phil, this is Frank we're talking about. Just put them in order and try again."

Phil looked up at Joe, understanding flooding his face. "Order," he repeated. "_Birth order._ Me, Frank, Tony, Chet, Biff, then you." He took a clean sheet of paper and made two columns. In one he wrote the alphabet and the numbers 1-10, in the other the names and date in order of age, putting in additional notation marks where letters repeated. He started working on the first grouping of letters, a sigh of relief escaping his lips when he saw what they wrote. He looked at Joe. "We did it. We've got it."

"Are you sure?" Joe was practically shouting. "You need to be sure."

"I am," Phil said. "It's going to take a while to get all the way through. I need to get it right." He paused, suddenly looking exhausted. "But I'm sure. It's addressed to you."

Joe looked down at the page. Above the first three letters of the coded message – r2po – in Phil's neat printing was his name. Joe.


	8. One Month Ago

Frank lost track of how long he had been in chains. Hansen didn't check up on him at regular intervals, so he couldn't use the man's visits to estimate the passage of time. Early on he learned to ration the food he found near the cot, eating only as much at any one time as he needed to stave off hunger. He knew he was losing weight; his jeans rested on his hips, his t-shirt no longer fit snugly on his arms. Asleep, Joe's words rang in his head – _"__Be careful. Mom and Dad are getting a little tired of those three a.m. phone calls informing them one of us in the hospital" – _awake he heard Hansen again and again – _"You remind me of me when I was your age... you're brilliant. And driven. I think we're very much alike."_ At times he couldn't tell if the voices were in his head or if the speakers were actually in the room with him. One time he thought Hansen said the release date was being delayed due to testing problems, but he couldn't be sure if the words had been real or imagined.

When the lantern's batteries ran down he spent long periods of time in complete darkness. To keep his mind working, he memorized his code and started creating coded messages in his head, finally concentrating on one specific message for Joe. He had no doubt Joe would look for him. And find him. Eventually. The only question was in what condition. Frank could feel himself losing ground mentally and knew he had to get instructions to Joe that couldn't be intercepted by Hansen. With no paper, he composed the message in his mind, hitting an imaginary backspace key each time he made a mistake, then starting over again each time it was completed. It needed to be perfect, not too complex but containing enough information so Joe would know what needed to be done. It needed to be perfect. Frank's inner eyes focused on his laptop's screen, the message appearing one character at a time as his fingers painstakingly moved over an imaginary keyboard. It needed to be perfect. He had to make sure he got instructions to Joe. It needed to be perfect. Slowly, letter by letter, he typed, starting again each time he finished. It needed to be perfect. It needed to be perfect. It needed...

o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o

Joe wasn't expecting this meeting with Agent Malone to go any better than the previous one. After seven weeks of no word from Frank, he had contacted her with his concerns over his brother's safety. Her response had been a lecture on the concepts and realities of 'deep cover.'

"He hasn't gotten in touch with you because he's immersed in the investigation," Malone told him in a condescending manner, as though explaining something to a child. "I'd think you of all people would understand how this works, Mr. Hardy."

"He hasn't called me because something's _wrong_," Joe snapped. "You don't know Frank like I do, Agent Malone. The longest he's ever gone with no contact on _any_ assignment is a month. _One month._ It's well past that now." He stood and put both hands on her desk, looming over her. As he was at least a foot taller than she was, he hoped this would intimidate her just a little. "You need to send someone in after him."

Malone also stood, obviously not feeling at all threatened. Her brown eyes were steely as they met his. "Meaning you, of course." She shook her head. "No. You're not enough of a team player," she said. "Thank you for your concerns, Mr. Hardy. We'll contact you when we have more information." Then she turned away moving to a filing cabinet, dismissing him with her body language.

Joe had to keep himself from shoving her desk against the wall. Staying on this woman's good side was the only way he could help Frank, so he couldn't afford to lose his temper. He straightened up, glared at her back, and left without a word.

Now here he was again, wondering why – after weeks of ignoring his calls – she wanted to see him. Nearly three months had now passed since Frank's last contact, and Joe was felt like he was losing his mind. The agency's latest office manager had quit after bearing the brunt of Joe's anxiety, so now he had to deal with the administrative work of the agency as well as the investigations. Unfortunately, this 'busy work' left his mind free to consider every possible thing that could have happened to his brother.

"So, why did you call me?" he finally asked, tired of waiting.

If he expected her to flinch, he was disappointed. "I've got a way to get you in," she said, her voice impassive. "Are you interested?"

Joe felt his jaw drop. This was _not_ the answer he had expected. "So you _finally_ believe he's in danger, then? It's about time." He knew sarcasm wouldn't help their working relationship, but he couldn't help it.

A flicker of emotion crossed Malone's face, leaving so quickly Joe couldn't tell whether it was anger, fear, or disappointment. "I take it that's a 'yes'," she said impassively. Without waiting for an answer, she went on. "Your name is Joseph Miller, age twenty-five. A year ago you went out for a run after dinner and were hit by a drunk driver. After much therapy, you're now living in a halfway house with others who have suffered brain injuries and are trying to reintegrate into society."

"Wait," Joe spluttered. "What kind of cover is that?"

Malone kept talking as if he hadn't interrupted. "Physically, you're fine, but your short-term memory is shot, so you need this." She tossed a package at him. Unwrapping it, Joe found a notebook with a chain long enough to wear around his neck strung through the rings. "You'll use this to take notes on things you need to do your job – names, who works in what department... a map of the building." She paused to let the information sink in. "Hansen's nephew was killed by a drunk driver the night before his high school graduation. Since then, he's made generous donations each year to Mothers Against Drunk Driving. You've got an interview for the mail room tomorrow morning at nine. It's cursory. The job is yours." She looked up into his eyes. "One of my team members will pose as your occupational therapist and will accompany you to the interview, and someone will drive you to work each morning." Joe raised his eyebrows at this last statement. "You know how to drive, but you can't remember how to get to new places."

"And this will be useful how?" Joe asked, clearly skeptical.

"You'll be able to go places in the building no one else could with the perfect excuse for being anywhere you're not supposed to be," Malone answered, "as well as the means to document what you find. And since your computer programming skills are negligible, it's what we could come up with." She arched an eyebrow at him. "Any other questions?"

Joe glared at her. "Just one. Why me and not one of your agents?"

The same unspecified emotion flashed briefly across Malone's face. "Your knowledge of your brother's thought processes and work habits surpasses ours," she said. "We already checked his apartment. It was cleaned out. The landlord said he hadn't seen him for months; he figured Frank skipped town. If your brother left any clues or messages at the office, you have a better chance of finding them than we do. We need to get this guy."

"And find Frank," Joe reminded her, an edge of anger in his voice.

"Of course," she responded. "Finding Frank is also important."

Joe wasn't sure he believed her, but at this point he didn't care. He was in, and that was all that mattered.

o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o

Joe started work at Hansen's company the following Monday. Malone instructed him to wear a button-up shirt and tie, and was less than pleased to see him in a long-sleeved t-shirt and khakis when she picked him up. "The chain kept getting caught in the tie," he explained. "Besides, it's kind of a casual place. You want me to fit in, right?"

Once there, his supervisor, a nineteen-year-old Asian-American girl named Kate, told him Hansen had sent out a company-wide memo introducing Joe. It instructed everyone to help him if he asked for assistance, but otherwise to give him time to get used to the building and the people. "Mr. Hansen's really nice," she said, speaking slowly and carefully, her eyes glowing as she looked him and down. "He doesn't want you to get overwhelmed." Joe had to remind himself several times not to respond to her too quickly and to take notes on everything she said. He was beginning to think this was a bad idea.

For the rest of the week, Joe carried a mailbag and his notebook around to the different offices, filling the book with names, notes, and a detailed map of the building. The staffers were friendly and introduced themselves, making sure he knew how to spell their names correctly and offering help in finding the lunch room, the supply closets, and the bathrooms. He poked around every office and found nothing, not even evidence Frank had once worked for the company. This just made Joe more determined to find something.

He met Hansen during his second week. Joe was sorting Wednesday's incoming mail when he heard a sharp intake of breath from Kate, then a faint shushing noise next to her. He ignored both sounds and continued as if concentrating deeply on his task, consulting his notebook often to verify names, just as Joe Miller would need to do. He grabbed a large manilla envelope and turned it over. It was addressed to Frank Tennison. Before he could stop himself, he gasped.

Instantly someone stood next to him. "Are you all right, son?"

Joe looked up, then immediately moved his eyes back to the pile of mail and away from the older man with graying hair at his temples. Joe showed him the envelope. "Yes," he murmured. "I don't have this name on my list."

The man took it from him. "Ah, yes. Tennison. He worked in programming for a while. He left several months ago. Personal issues. Anything that comes for him can go to Miles Jacobs." Joe nodded, scribbling the instruction in his notebook. "Joe?" Joe glanced up, keeping his face blank. "I'm sorry I haven't been down to introduce myself sooner. I'm Edward Hansen. I wanted to give you a chance to get used to us before officially welcoming you to the company." Joe shook his hand, then looked back at the pile of mail. "If there's anything you need to do your job, just let me know."

"I've got everything I need right here," Joe said, patting the notebook. He kept his eyes down, hoping Hansen would think he was shy. "Thank you for hiring me, sir," he added, lowering his voice.

Hansen regarded Joe for a few seconds, then clapped him lightly on the shoulder and left. Kate scurried over as soon as the boss was gone. She smiled encouragingly. "That was great, Joe. You did real good. He liked you." Joe tried to smile back but couldn't. He was having to concentrate too hard on not racing after Hansen, throwing the man against a wall, and demanding to know what he had done with Frank. Hands shaking with the effort of suppressing his emotions, he nodded once at Kate, and tried to focus on the mail.

o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o

Joe spent the next week making a detailed survey of the building. Miles found him checking one of the supply closets for hidden panels just before lunch on Tuesday, and Kate had to drag him out of the attic after closing time on Friday afternoon.

"Geez, Joe," she sounded exasperated, "what are you doing up here? Your ride's been waiting for twenty minutes. I almost had a heart attack when I couldn't find you. "

"I got lost," he said. Then he softened his eyes, deciding playing on her sympathy was his best bet. "You think I'd remember where all these doors go at this point." He sighed. "I'm sorry. I'd promise not to do it again, but I probably will." He gave her a shy smile. "Forgive me?"

Kate's eyes widened and a faint blush spread over her cheeks. "Um, sure," she stammered. "You, uh, better put that door on your map. I mean, so it doesn't happen again." She gulped and lowered her gaze to his chest. "Uh, Joe?" her voice turned breathy. "You wouldn't want to go for coffee or something, would you?"

Inwardly, Joe groaned, wondering if Hansen had a policy on employee dating that could save him. "That would be nice, but didn't you say my caseworker was here?" he asked, emphasizing the word 'caseworker.' Kate's blush deepened, and she turned away. He followed her down the stairs in silence.

For the next few days, Kate's eyes were on Joe constantly, curtailing his investigating, and annoying him to no end. On Thursday she left early for a doctor's appointment, and Joe breathed a sigh of relief. The basement was the only area left to explore, and he hadn't been able to get near it with Kate around. After checking the hall carefully at the day's end, he descended the stairs and walked slowly down the corridor, senses alert, his footsteps echoing in the darkness. Heart pounding, he stretched his arms out in front of him, unable to see in the dim light, and hoped his eyes would adjust quickly.

Metal suddenly appeared under his palms. With his fingertips, he traced the shape of a low door, heavy and cold. On one side he felt hinges but found no handle on the other, just a keyhole. Placing his ear against the door, he strained to catch any sounds from inside the room but discerned nothing. He knelt, moving his mouth near the keyhole's small opening. "Frank?" he whispered, hoping for a response. None came. Disappointment flooded through him. He had been so sure the basement was the key. He stood quickly and, momentarily disoriented in the darkness, overbalanced. His right leg came in contact with... something. Kneeling again, he ran his hands over the object, trying to put an image to the odd shape and realizing after a few seconds it was several cases of bottled water wrapped in plastic. The top layer had been opened and was missing half its contents. But why keep bottles of water in an unused hallway? There were plenty of supply closets in the main part of the building. And why so much? It was crazy to keep it here... Unless it needed to be close to the locked room to be rationed out to someone there.

Joe could feel the blood slowly drain from his face. He knelt down to the keyhole again, this time placing his ear against it. Listening carefully, he could just make out a faint, whooshing sound. Was it breathing? He put his mouth to the opening again. "Frank? Hold on, 'bro. I'm going to get you out of here. Just hold on." He ran through the darkness to the staircase and took the stairs two at a time. He needed to get supplies – lights, an axe – and back-up. Today's driver would do.

He sprinted through the door and barreled right into Hansen. "Whoa there," the older man started indignantly, then he looked again. "Joe? Are you all right? What's happened?"

Breathing hard and needing to get away from Hansen, Joe struggled to push himself back into his cover. "Got lost," he panted. "Wrong door. Dark hallway."

Hansen looked at Joe, a mixture of concern and fear spreading across his face. "You were in the basement?" he asked sharply. Joe nodded. "It's not safe down there. Is the basement even on your map? Show it to me." Joe handed the notebook over, and Hansen squinted at the page. "You know, son, I've got more detailed maps of the building in my office. When I get back from Washington, I'll get you one."

"You're leaving?" Joe asked. "When?"

"Right now," Hansen replied. "I'm heading to Washington to oversee the installation of our latest update." He leaned in confidentially. "It's a couple of months overdue, and I want to make sure everything runs smoothly. I'll be back Monday or Tuesday." When they got to the mail room, Hansen waited as Joe gathered his things then walked him to the exit, waving goodbye as they left the building.

Malone was waiting for him in the car, her eyes widening at the look on his face. Joe told what he had found. "He's in that room. He has to be. How fast..."

"I'll call about the warrants as soon as I drop you off," she said. Joe stared at her in disbelief. He needed to do this now. "Mr. Hardy, we're the good guys. We do things the right way. First thing tomorrow morning we'll go in." She put a hand on his arm. "If he's in there, we'll find him. I promise."


	9. Tuesday

Joe circled the table, trying desperately to burn off some nervous energy while not breaking Phil's concentration. His gaze turned frequently to the clock. They were so close, yet time felt like it had slowed to a crawl. The others found ways to occupy themselves as Phil's eyes flickered between the two papers and Joe paced like a restless tiger. Chet worked on his quilt, carefully pinning together pattern pieces; Tony alternated between staring at Phil and smoothing out crumpled pieces of paper he picked up off the floor.

"Mr. Hardy, can I talk to you for a minute?" They all jumped at the unexpected sound. Dr. Finley had entered the room completely unnoticed. "Nothing's wrong," the doctor said as four sets of worried eyes turned in his direction. "I've been asked to speak with you about a course of treatment, that's all."

Joe nodded at his friends, and they filed slowly out of the room, papers and projects still spread out over the table. "Okay, doc," Joe said, frustrated at the interruption, "what's this about? I thought we were going just to talk to him for a while before trying any treatments."

Finley looked down at the clipboard in his hands. "Your mother tells me that you're Frank's health care proxy. Is that correct?" Joe inclined his head, wondering where Finley was going. "Your parents have approached me about possible treatment options." Finley's brown eyes met Joe's blue ones. "Mr. Hardy, we have no way to know how long your brother has been catatonic, and the longer he remains in this condition, the more difficult it could be to bring him back." He paused and took a deep breath. " As I said on Friday, given his physical state, I don't feel comfortable administering medication to him, but ECT is still an option."

Joe's head snapped up. "Doesn't ECT cause memory loss? Why are we even talking about this?"

"It can," Finley admitted. "Generally, the loss is minor and temporary. Most patients recover the lost memories in time."

"In time," Joe repeated. "No. Frank wouldn't want that. He's spent too much time on this case not to be able to trust his memory." He shook his head, confusion showing on his face. "My parents asked about ECT? They know Frank. There's no way he'd allow that. Messing with his mind isn't an option I can even consider."

"You hold the proxy, Mr. Hardy," Finley reminded him. "Nothing can be done without your permission."

The door opened, and both men looked up as Laura Hardy entered the room. "Joe, did the doctor..." Her eyes found Finley's and filled with tears as the man averted his gaze. She turned away, and Joe could tell she was crying. Finley gently patted her shoulder as he left.

Joe had thought nothing could be as bad as the shock and fear he felt when he saw Frank being pulled from Hansen's basement, but he was wrong. This was worse. He was trapped between trying to decide what would help his brother – and ease their parents' suffering – and what Frank himself would want. He was being ripped in two. He crossed the room and hugged his weeping mother. "I'm sorry," he whispered. "I can't."

"He's been gone almost a year," Laura sobbed, "and now I can see him and touch him, but he's not there. He doesn't know I'm here."

"I know. I'm sorry," Joe said, his voice breaking. He needed to explain. "It could affect his memory. I can't mess with his brain, Mom. He'd kill me if anything went wrong."

Laura's shoulders convulsed. With a start, Joe realized she was no longer crying; she had hiccoughed out a laugh. She pulled out of the embrace, lifted her chin, and looked her younger son in the eyes. "He would, wouldn't he?" she said, smiling through her tears. "I'm sorry, dear. It's just..."

"I know." And he did.

Joe spent the rest of the day in Frank's room with his parents. As much as he wanted to stand over Phil, watching as each letter appeared on the page, his parents needed him. At the end of the day he drove them back to their hotel, took a shower, and slept in a bed for the first time in three days.

o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o

Before sunrise Tuesday morning, Joe was back at the hospital heading straight for the conference room. It had been over twelve hours since he'd left, and he was counting on Phil's having deciphered Frank's message long before now. He strode into the room and was shocked to find it occupied by only one person. Kara Malone stood in the center of the room, her back to the door, a cell phone at her ear.

"Nice of you to drop in, Agent Malone," Joe growled at her, anger flaring in his chest. "So much for _your_ being concerned about my brother's safety." He slammed his jacket on a nearby chair. "Where the hell have you been?"

Surprise replaced anger as he looked at her face. The emotion that had appeared so briefly during their meeting a month ago now blanketed her face. "I've been in Boston," she retorted. "At Dana Farber. Visiting my sister."

Joe stepped back, shocked. Even he had heard of the Dana Farber Cancer Institute. "Your sister," he repeated, his voice faint. "Older or younger?"

"Older," Malone replied. "Not that it's any of your business."

Only now did Joe recognize the expression standing naked on Malone's face; it was a carbon copy of the one he'd been seeing in the mirror for months – hopeless rage layered with a thin veneer of despair. "I'm sorry," he said, sincerity coursing through the words, "I didn't know."

"No one knows," Malone responded, her voice hoarse. "You're the first person I've told."

Joe thought of Chet showing up early Saturday and taking care of details so Joe didn't have to, of Phil arriving not knowing if he would be blamed for Frank's capture, of Tony staying up all night making food Frank couldn't yet eat, of Biff calling several times a day to send support from another continent. "You should tell your friends," he suggested gently, "and your team. You're going to need them. I think you need them now." He took a step closer to her. "How long?"

"Does she have? Not long. Have I known?" Her eyes bore into his. "Since a few days before our meeting. It's why I set up the cover for you." Tears threatened to spill onto her cheeks, and she blinked them into her lashes. "Not my most professional move, but I knew I was losing Lynnie, and I was damned if I was going to be responsible for you losing Frank. Not if I could do something about it." She wiped her eyes and handed Joe a scrap of paper. "Your friends left you a note. They're waiting for you in his room."

"Thank you," he said, taking the paper from her. "Are you all right?"

"I will be," she said. "Go. You shouldn't keep them waiting." Joe stood, torn between needing to find out what Phil had discovered and wanting to comfort Malone. "If you try to hug me, Hardy, I swear I'll shoot you," Malone told him. "Go already."

Joe gritted his teeth. "I have no idea how he works with you," he muttered.

"That's funny," Malone threw back at him, "I keep thinking the same thing about you."

o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o

Phil and Chet both stood as Joe entered the room. Joe looked for Tony, shooting a questioning look at Chet. "He had to go to back. His dad couldn't spare him longer than two days. He'll call later."

Joe turned to Phil. "Well?"

Phil handed him a folded sheet of paper. "It's done. I'm the only one who's seen it. We agreed since it was addressed to you..."

Joe took the paper and went to stand by Frank's bed. Frank was awake, eyes open and staring at the opposite wall, fingers still gently moving. "Okay, 'bro," he said. "Let's see what it is you were so desperate to tell me."

"Joe, do you want us to leave?" Chet asked. "We understand if you want to be alone with him while you read it."

"No," Joe replied. "You guys did most of the work. You deserve to hear the results." With trembling fingers he unfolded the note and read it aloud. "Joe: If reading this, I'm alive can' t talk. Thank guys decoding, esp Phil. Tell him cover wasn't broken. Hansen thought I sold him out." Joe glanced at Phil and saw – despite Phil's obvious exhaustion – how much more relaxed their friend appeared. "7 or 8 flash drives safety deposit box First National Main. Phil decode. Give Kara. Details Hansen's operation. Key PO Box 2329 South. Make Hansen know who. Sorry. F." He lowered the paper, his eyes distant. "Jesus Christ."

"Who's Kara?" Phil's voice was quiet.

"Agent Malone. FBI. She's in the conference room." Joe started for the door. "She needs to know. He'd want her to know immediately." He winced realizing he was speaking as if Frank wasn't there.

Phil stood. "I'll give her the message. Then I'll get started on a translation program. He must have used the same code for the drives that he did for this. Something like this," he indicated the message in Joe's hand, "I could do by hand, but seven or eight drives? I need technology for that." Joe nodded his thanks and watched as Phil left, looking almost excited.

Chet shrugged his shoulders. "Geeks," he said solemnly. "So what do you want me..." he broke off as his cell phone buzzed. "Tony," he said, glancing at the number. "I'll get him filled in, then I'll call Biff and go get your folks." He flipped open the phone and followed Phil out the door, leaving Joe alone with Frank for the first time since Saturday night.

Joe sank into a chair, suddenly exhausted, despite his night's sleep. "How the hell did you keep all that in your head, 'bro? We all know you're brilliant, but isn't this showing off just a bit, even for you?" He looked over at his brother as he spoke, then gasped. Frank had turned his head towards Joe. His eyes were still dull and his face expressionless, but his hands were still for the first time since Phil's experiment with the laptop. Joe grabbed Frank's right hand and squeezed it gently.

"Frank, can you hear me? Kara's got the information. She's probably on her way to the post office right now for the key. And we'll make sure Hansen knows you're the one who brought him down. I promise." He kept hold of Frank's hand. "Frank, you did it. You don't have to hold on to the message any longer. We got it. Phil figured it out." He was babbling now, his voice getting louder with each word. "You need to explain one thing, though. 'Sorry.' Sorry for what? For getting kidnapped? It's not like _that_ hasn't ever happened to us before."

"Three a.m... phone call." Frank's lips barely moved.

Joe wasn't sure if Frank had actually spoken or if his mind was playing tricks on him. He held his breath and felt Frank's fingers curling around his hand, applying the slightest pressure to Joe's own hand. "Frank, there wasn't any phone..." Sudden understanding flooded through his mind as he remembered his own words from months ago – _Mom and Dad are getting a little tired of those three a.m. phone calls _– "Oh. No. It was eleven a.m. this time."

Frank's shoulders relaxed. His eyes started to come alive as he struggled to focus on his surroundings. "Didn't... wake them?" His voice was a whisper.

"They were doing laundry or something." Joe said, too relieved to hear his brother's voice to feel exasperated at the question. "Jesus, Frank. Only you would be worried about what _time_ our parents found out you were safe."

"That I was... in the hospital," Frank corrected. He blinked a few more times then turned his eyes to Joe's for the first time. He looked as if he was coming out of anesthesia, woozy and off-kilter. "Where are they?"

"Mom and Dad? They'll be here soon." He squeezed Frank's hand again, his heart skipping beats until he felt the answering pressure. "You had them really worried, 'bro." His voice cracked. "You had all of us really worried. When I didn't hear from you for so long, I thought... I thought." His breath grew ragged. "Damn it, Frank, I should've been there! I should've done something..."

"Joe, it's okay," Frank's voice was stronger now. "I'm all right. You did everything you could." Frank looked around the room, puzzled. "Where are the guys?"

Joe's eyes grew wide. He felt as if he had been hit in the stomach. "You heard us talking to you? Dr. Finley said you might." Frank shook his head. "Then how do you..."

"I just know," Frank interrupted. "Just like I knew you'd find me. And you did."


	10. Six Months Later

"Will you please state your full name for the court?"

"Franklin John Hardy."

Standing at the back of the courtroom, Joe watched as Hansen leaned forward in his seat, squinting up at Frank in the witness stand. Sitting up straight, his hair cut short again, and dressed in a suit, Frank no longer resembled Tennison, and Joe wasn't surprised Hansen didn't recognize him. Malone hadn't wanted Joe to leave the witness chamber, insisting as a secret witness his presence should remain just that – a secret – and that he could see Frank's testimony just fine on the closed-circuit television connection the FBI had provided. Joe glared and just strode past her as if she hadn't spoken at all. He needed to be there with Frank, to support him. Even if it was from across the room.

o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o

Frank's recuperation hadn't gone as well as Joe had hoped. Once out of the hospital, their parents had insisted he come home to get his strength back. Frank had patiently tolerated several weeks of being fussed over by his mother and aunt – he had less patience with the counseling sessions recommended by Dr. Finley – before insisting on moving back to the city. Joe followed him, spending so much time at Frank's studio apartment that Frank started grumbling about privacy and personal space. Joe ignored him. He was he uncomfortable leaving Frank alone for long periods of time; there were too many nights Joe awoke to hear his brother shouting incoherently or else muttering "nothing like you" over and over in his sleep. Each morning after one of these episodes, Joe would drag himself from Frank's uncomfortable sofa to find his brother staring mindlessly out a window, shivering.

Two months after Frank's discharge, the brothers had traveled to Boston to attend Malone's sister's funeral. After seeing how loosely Frank's suit fit, Joe proceeded to spend so much time fussing over his brother – making sure he ate and drank enough, insisting he not over-exert himself, suggesting he should get more sleep – that Frank blew up at him. "Just leave me alone," he hissed. "I'm fine." Joe backed off but continued monitoring his brother. At the reception after the service, Malone greeted Frank warmly and only grudgingly allowed Joe to hug her for a brief moment. Frank smiled at the exchange, and Joe felt a momentary sense of relief; he hadn't seen his brother smile in far too long.

As Hansen's trial approached, Frank had withdrawn into himself even more, shutting Joe out almost completely. Chet, in his new role as office manager and general caretaker, took it upon himself to lighten Frank's mood, taking Frank bowling, showing up unannounced at his apartment with pizza and movies, and trying to interest Frank in his most recent hobby – rock climbing at a local gym. "It'll help get your muscle tone back," he said. Frank wasn't thrilled with the attention but – much to Joe's satisfaction – went along with Chet's plans.

Tony traveled up as often as he could, each time cooking elaborate meals to tempt Frank's appetite and leftovers to stock his freezer. Biff called regularly, his work schedule not allowing for frequent visits but wanting to stay in nearly constant contact. Phil flew out from California every few weeks – ostensibly for Frank to help with a new piece of software he was developing – and talked about using the new program to start his own company so he could be back on the east coast. Their parents came out nearly every weekend, claiming the trips were for Fenton's health, but no one was fooled. Even though Frank insisted he was fine, they all worried.

A few weeks before the trial started, Joe spent a frustrating day arguing with Malone about the need to put Frank on the witness stand. He felt that Frank's testimony should be videotaped rather than subjecting him to possible cross-examination by Hansen's attorney. "I don't give a shit if it makes your case more effective to have him there in person," he told her. "You've got his flash drives, his written statements, and his interviews. That should be more than enough." While not happy, she had finally agreed. If it was what Frank wanted.

Frank was furious when he discovered what Joe had done. "What the hell?" he erupted, arms flailing about and his face turning red. "I'm not a child, and this is a federal court case, you idiot! You don't interfere with the witness list in a federal case."

It had been years since Joe had seen Frank so angry and longer still since he'd spoken to Joe that way. "I was trying to protect you," he said coldly. "I thought..."

"Well, don't," Frank snapped. "It's not your strong suit."

Joe stiffened and wondered how upset Malone would be if her star witness ended up back in the hospital. He took a deep breath, and focused on not hitting his brother. "_Fine_," he said through his teeth, "you don't want my help, you won't get it." He spun around, turning his back on Frank. "I am _sick_ of this bullshit, Frank. You want me to leave you alone? _Fine_, this is me leaving you alone."

Frank's hand was on his arm before he made it to the door. "Joe." His voice sounded wrong. Joe turned back to face his brother, anger flashing in his eyes, hands still curled into fists. Frank was drawn and pale. "I'm sorry... I didn't mean... I wasn't..." He closed his eyes and pushed out a sharp breath. "This is harder than I thought it would be. A lot harder." When opened his eyes, Joe could see the pain and uncertainty he felt. "I was way out of line. I'm sorry."

"You don't have to do this, Frank." Joe's anger disappeared as fast as it had come. "Just tell Malone..."

"Actually, little brother, I do," Frank said, cutting across Joe's words. His voice was shaking. "He still doesn't know it was me. I want to be there when he realizes_ I_ was the one that brought him down. You promised, remember?" He gripped Joe's arm tightly. "Joe, I _need_ to be in that courtroom."

Joe wasn't sure. He feared facing Hansen might send Frank completely over the edge, but he knew he had to support the decision. "Okay then, big brother," he said, "if that's what you need, I'll have your back."

o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o

"And how do you know the defendant, Mr. Hardy?" the prosecutor asked.

"I worked for him as a programmer." With his peripheral vision, Frank saw Hansen shake his head, then turn and whisper something to his lawyer. He swallowed, a period of silence telling him he had missed the lawyer's follow-up question. "Sorry?" He looked again at Hansen, his heart beating faster, and considered the possibility that Joe might have been right; maybe appearing on the stand wasn't such a good idea after all.

"I asked if you worked for Edward Hansen under your own name," the man repeated.

A motion from the back of the courtroom caught his eye. Joe had moved out from behind a column and caught Frank's eye. He stood shifting his weight from side to side, unable to remain still even for a moment. Frank acknowledged him with a nod, took a breath, and tried to calm himself down. Knowing Joe was close by helped. "No," he answered. "The defendant knew me as Frank Tennison." Hansen flinched violently in his seat, and a feeling of satisfaction soared through Frank. Hansen was afraid. Suddenly, he felt more in control than he had in a long time.

"And why did you do that?"

This time Frank looked directly at Hansen. Beads of sweat were starting to form on the man's forehead, and Frank knew that despite the changes in his appearance, Hansen now knew exactly who he was. He turned back to the prosecutor. "The FBI requested my assistance in an undercover operation. They believed the defendant was selling sensitive government information to the highest bidder." Hansen sat perfectly still, eyes glued to Frank. Frank did his best to ignore him. "They needed someone from outside the agency as there was a good chance Hansen would recognize any of the agents who had the computer skills necessary for this investigation."

"Did you find this evidence, Mr. Hardy?"

"Yes," Frank nodded. "I collected data for almost six months, detailing how the operation worked."

"Only six months? What happened?"

Frank raised an eyebrow. "Hansen thought I was selling trade secrets to a competitor, so he drugged me and locked me in the company's basement for three months." It surprised Frank how easily the words came out. "Fortunately, my brother found me, or it's possible I could have died."

"Objection!" Hansen's attorney shouted. "That's speculation from the witness." The judge agreed and instructed the jury to ignore the remark.

The prosecutor turned to Frank again. "What do you mean, your brother found you? Don't you mean another FBI operative?"

"No, I mean my _brother_." Frank looked to the back of the room, meeting Joe's eyes again. "He convinced the lead agent to send him undercover in hopes of finding me." Hansen followed Frank's eyes and swiveled around, scanning the back of the chamber. His face turned a sickly white when he spotted Joe, who flashed a feral grin at him. Frank smiled faintly. "Obviously, he did. I _believe _Joe saved my life."

Hansen's attorney was frantically taking notes. He declined the opportunity to cross-examine Frank, and Frank was allowed to step down. He took a seat in the gallery and watched as Joe was called to the witness stand and sworn in. Frank listened with rapt attention as Joe answered questions about his part in the investigation, feeling by turns awed at the tenacity Joe exhibited in searching for him and guilty over his recent treatment of his brother.

When Joe's testimony was complete, Frank met him outside the witness room. His jaw was set and his eyes troubled. Joe's triumphant smile faded. "Frank, are you all right? What happened?"

Frank could feel tears forming. He ignored them and simply looked at his brother. "Nothing," he said. "I just wanted to apologize. I've been a complete jackass the last six months, a stupid jerk." He shook his head in disbelief. "I've been so wrapped up in myself, I never even asked you how you found me. I have no idea how you've been putting up with me."

"A jerk maybe," Joe agreed, his head tilting to one side. "A _stupid _jerk?" He paused as if thinking. "I don't think that's possible, not with your IQ. I'll give you jackass, though." His expression grew serious. "Look, Frank. I can't even begin to imagine what you went through, and yet you still found a way to get information to us. I couldn't have done it." Joe grabbed Frank in a fierce hug. "Jackass or not, I'm just glad you're still here, 'bro," he whispered.

"Me, too," Frank said, hugging Joe back. "Me, too."

o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o

After court adjourned for the day, Frank made no comment as Joe followed him home instead of heading to his own place. For the first time in many months, he really didn't mind having Joe hover over him. Joe was no longer watching him, just watching _out_ for him. Frank realized this was an important, albeit subtle, shift in his thinking and knew more time would need to pass before he could talk about it. He needed to be sure he really was himself again, that the cloud he felt hanging over him was finally starting to dispel. Facing Hansen had been the first step. Now he needed to take the leap to get rid of it for good.

They spent the evening in relative silence. Frank watched Joe fidget through dinner – his fingers drumming on the table, his legs bouncing so much the table shook – and appreciated his brother's attempt at patience. He watched with annoyed affection as Joe dozed off during the ENIAC documentary Frank tried to watch until his snores drowned out the narration. Eventually, he gave up, covered Joe with a blanket, and went to bed. When he woke in the morning, he realized with a start he had slept through the night with no nightmares. It felt good.

To no one's surprise, once the jury got the case, deliberations took very little time. Even Hansen's lawyer seemed to expect the guilty verdict the foreman announced. Frank made sure to get a seat on the aisle where he could have a good view of Hansen and the judge. Joe squeezed in next to him. Hansen displayed no emotion during the sentencing, his face stony and still. As he walked awkwardly down the aisle, handcuffed with a court officer on either side of him, his eyes met Frank's, and he stopped.

"I hope you're not waiting for me to apologize," Hansen said. "You would have done the same."

Frank shook his head. "No. I wouldn't. You were wrong about me, Mr. Hansen. I'm not like you. At all." He paused. "My actions here should have proven that. We are nothing alike." He nodded at the court officers, and they continued on their way. Frank turned to Joe, an enormous weight lifted from his mind. "Let's go, little brother. We've got an agency to run."

Joe grinned at him. "All right!" He looked at his watch. "Can we get lunch first? I'm starved."

Frank rolled his eyes. It looked like things were finally back to normal. For both of them. "Sure," he said, giving in to Joe's appetite, "but let's give Chet a call. You know he hates to miss a good lunch."

They walked out of the courthouse.

o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o

Author Notes:

The middle names I created are as follows: Philip Ari Cohen; Franklin John Hardy; Anthony Christopher Prito; Chet [July 23] Morton; Allen "Biff" Whitaker Hooper; Joseph Paul Hardy.

And here is the code. I apologize that it doesn't line up perfectly:

A B C D E F G H I J K L M N O P Q R S T U V W X Y Z 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10

A R I J O H N C H2 R2 I2 S T O2 P H3 E R3 J2 U L Y 2 3 W H4 I3 T2 A2 K E2 R4 P2 A3 U2 L2

Any variations in character are my own, and any mistakes in the coded message are completely my fault. Thanks to all who read and special thanks to all who read and reviewed.


End file.
